


Holmes and Watson

by Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 03:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes/pseuds/Miss_Rebecca_Watson_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following finale of Series 3, BBC Sherlock.<br/>Add me on instagram - @sherlock_its_an_ear_hat<br/>I will follow back! And please let me know what you think.<br/>Rebecca x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Last Observation

  He sighed, his breath leaving a foggy patch on the cabin window, as he watched the city he called home disappear as the private jet began it's ascent, and rested his chin on his curled fist. Down there were people he like and disliked, loved and hated, and a million memories. A pang of sentiment swirled in his throat, but denying any feeling Sherlock swallowed it back down. It left a nasty bittersweet taste of fear and homesickness in his mouth. Feeling uncomfortable and slightly awkward in the small plane compartment, he straightened and studied the cabin roof and it's lack of detail, finally settling on closing his eyes. He begged himself to find something to concentrate on, anything that would take his mind of the current situation, but even his 'mind-palace' was out of reach.

  From any onlooker, such as the rather smartly dressed officer sat across the aisle beside him, it would seem as though Sherlock was holding back tears. Although if anyone was to ask him or query his emotions at this point in time, he would snap back with a sarcastic remark and a nasty glare, in the hope that it would shut them up indefinitely, if not just for the remainder of the journey. Though, as hated as the truth was, there were tears forming in his pink, glossy eyes. He had _never_ been good at sentiment.

He needed a distraction - any distraction and fast. So he glanced at the only other man in the compartment with him. Sherlock coughed, an attempt to break the ice cold silence that that had filled the room, and brushed his hands through his curls, composing himself. Small-talk. It seemed his only option. Oh, how he _hated_ small talk. He had already attracted attention from his fidgeting, by the man who studied him with a reserved, yet curious, look. Sherlock noticed the prying eyes, so he looked back at the man, dressed in a black suit, scruffy white shirt and scuffed shoes.

  "Curious?" Sherlock questioned, watching the man's face intently.

The startled man responded. "Sorry, Sir. What did you say?"

"You're curious to see if I really am as good as they say I am, or just a psychopath craving attention." Sherlock glared.

"Umm, I guess so, yes. But not quite like that. Well, are you?" The unkempt officer nervously stuttered.

"Well, Alex Rowlatt, I know you shouldn't be on this flight." he teased.

"Wha- why?" Mr Rowlatt spat. "-and how do you know my name?"

"I asked Mycroft for a list of people that would be 'accompanying' me on this flight. Unbelievably, sibling relations do come in handy of you pull the right strings." Sherlock sniggered. "But I can't give away _all_ my secrets now, can I Alex? Yes you should look flustered, your fiancée is in labour. You should have taken her pains seriously. Tut-tut. You woke up late this morning, that could have been due to an evening of drinking with your mates, but more likely her pains were keeping you both awake. You must have been pretty late - you dressed in a hurry. You tie isn't straight, the cuff of one of your trouser leg's is turned up and you shirt is creased - oh and you managed to forget one of the most important items for your job. Your gun. No point having an empty holster on a plane with a dangerous man. Not scoring many points when it comes to professional dress-code, are we? You recently moved, after work it would seem, as you wore your work shoes. They cannot of cost much, otherwise you would be unlikely to wear them for any heavy duty job, standard issue dress-code smart shoes then - being one of the faces for the protection of the United Kingdom you don't make for a very good impression. This job isn't as Bond as you thought it would be, is it? Not making the effort Mr Rowlatt. I am sure Mycroft would love to hear that. How do I know you used your work shoes? They are rather scuffed and scratched from moving heavy objects like bookcases and wardrobes. Not many things would leave such a dent in the front of your shoe. A new house - there are wood shavings and dust caught in your shoe laces, they don't look old enough to be from a house built a few years ago, the dust is not thick enough to show it has been left for a while. A new build then, the wood is too light to a colour so not yet stained by everyday use. You have also been decorating, a daughter or someone else female. You have pink paint smudges on your wrist and under the edges of your nails. Also nicotine stains, a heavy smoker then going by the roughness of your voice, the colour of your teeth and your erratic breathing pattern. How do I know your fiancée is pregnant? The photograph from a baby-scan is set as the background on your phone, you should probably change that, it makes you an easy target for manipulation. Unlikely to be anyone else's baby, at least not outside your immediate family. There is a small chance of it being a siblings scan, but no your fiancée's if we are going by probability. That and I overheard you talking on the phone to your fiancée about her ongoing back pains before the flight. Fiancée? You have 'set wedding date' scribbled on your palm, obviously written in haste, and something that needed to be sorted quickly, otherwise you wouldn't have written it on your palm as an obvious reminder. Maybe your job is at stake. A professional job like this, then yes, they want you settled down, so less of the holidays and heartbreak. Fairly recent writing, the biro is still slightly wet, so I am  guessing that Mycroft pressured you about it before you boarded this flight. Don't worry, Mycroft likes to pressure like that, he has never had patience. Considering you are painting the room pink, and the scan looks a fair way through the pregnancy, and the back pains, I would say there is a very good chance that she is going into labour, a slim chance that it is Braxton Hicks. Is that reassurance enough for you?"

  Sherlock took a large breath in, staring at Mr Rowlatt's, now gawping mouth and wide eyes. He was holding his breath and his cheeks were flustered red. Sherlock smiled sarcastically and turned to look out of the window once again. "You can breathe now, Alexander. It’s simple really, the signs are obvious, you just need to put them together. Something _normal_ people can't seem to do."

  "You’re a psychopath! A blood lunatic! Are you even human?" He laughed unbelievingly. He squirmed in his seat, letting out little breaths of air and looking obviously uncomfortable.

"A psychopath! How original." He sighed, unhumoured. He felt relieved, one last observation, before his expected six month life span when he hit new ground. He thought of John, his face, his voice, his laugh, that pissed- off, head down pose he pulled whenever he showed John his lack of interest. His resting face, the calm and normality that he longed for that was in John's mind. _Oh how he would miss him._

His daydream was cut short by the shrill ring of a phone. He wondered who was calling, some one checking how the flight was going? Maybe it was Mycroft, asking if he was being a 'good little boy'. Either way, it didn't seem all that interesting, they were hardly going to turn the plane around for someone who has just killed a very important, influential man and forget this had all happened.  This was set in stone.

"Sir, it's your brother." Mr Rowlatt held the phone out, swallowing nervously.

He took the phone, palm sweating slightly, and place it to his ear. "Mycroft."

"Hello little brother, how's the exile going?" The familiar voice asked sarcastically.

"I've only been gone four minutes." Sherlock sighed, impatiently.

"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson. As it turns out, your needed." He called.

Sherlock went rigid, his lips formed a thin straight line and the colour drained from his face. "For God's sake, make up your mind!" He paused. "Who needs me this time?"

There was a long pause, one that filled Sherlock with anticipation. Very faintly, he heard the words 'miss me' being repeated over and over again, as if on reel.

Mycroft replied. "England."


	2. The Game is On

 When the jet touched back down on English ground, Sherlock climbed down the stairs, following the rather flustered Mr Rowlatt. A quick fumble with his mobile as he crossed the tarmac gave it away, he believed him. "Not that much of  a psychopath then." He mumbled, pulling on his Belfstaff with a quick swoop.

"Sherlock, how nice to see you again." Mycroft's sarcastic, democratic derogatory was noticeable a long time before Sherlock laid eyes on him. He wore his resting face, a constant grimace, with the majority of his weight on his trusty umbrella. Beside him stood _his_ rather windswept John, with pink cheeks and tip of his nose, one arm wrapped around Mary, the other open and slightly out-turned, as if welcoming him back.

"This better be good if you have brought me back from my exile." Sherlock stared blankly at Mycroft then shifted his eyes to John, who smiled wholeheartedly. Sherlock smiled back an honest smile, with dimples and a glisten in his eyes. He looked at Mary, who had her eyes firmly down looking at the tarmac.

"We've had an _unexpected_ broadcast." Mycroft stepped closer Sherlock, shielding the Watson's.

"Yes. And?" Sherlock rushed Mycroft. "Oh stop with the riddles Mycroft and spit it out!" Sherlock hissed.

"I think you better take a look." Mycroft signaled at his driver to park the car closer to where the two of them stood. As Mycroft waited, Sherlock jumped at the chance to see John and Mary, bounding over to them. John released Mary, holding his hand out to Sherlock who shook it, smiles gleaming on their faces. "John, Mary." He placed his hand on Mary's arm, distracting her from her nervous daze.

"Alright mate, glad to see you back home. For a minute there I was wondering what I would do without you to babysit." He laughed. Sherlock smiled, breathing out a plume of air, that turned to steam as it hit the ice cold air.

"Sherlock." Mary sighed musically as she held Sherlock's hand, a sweet greeting. Mary looked tired, nervous and scared. Pale, with creases under her eyes, to be honest John didn’t look any better, except his were red and glossy. Sherlock wondered whether to remark on he fact he had been crying, but instead decided that maybe now _wasn’t_ the time to piss John off. 

"Sherlock" Mycroft chimed. Sherlock looked at John, pulled a face of disgust and walked back to Mycroft. John chuckled and pulled Mary into a firm embrace, letting Mary snuggle into him. He wrested his chin against her head and closed his eyes. He relaxed, his best friend was home.

"I need more detail. Where was it broadcast? TV? Radio? You can't vague Mycroft. I don't see how a simple broadcast can endanger the lives of-" He froze, like the ice of the air has seeped to his very core. "Moriarty." he murmured. Sherlock stared at the screen in installed in the car, and at Moriarty's puppeteer mouth moving up and down.

Sherlock zoned out, recalling the moment that Moriarty pulled the trigger, with the gun against his head. Still clear as day, the shock still raw.

Did you miss me? Miss me? Miss me?

Sherlock snapped back to reality, climbing out of the car and jogging over to John. " I don't understand. I need to understand, but I don't. He was dead. I am sure of it. But we no one ever knows when they are in  shock, when they have to make decisions. You block things out, lock them away, but why, and how?" he mumbled, his head spinning.

 

John. _But John_.

 

How would he cope, if the memories affected Sherlock so badly. "I watched him die, I thought we were free. I am so, so sorry John, I thought it was all over, I though he was gone." He rushed apologetically.

"Sherlock, don't worry. It’s okay. We can sort this out." He was more appreciative and understanding than he should have been. His head was filled with the memories that had kept him awake at night, of Sherlock falling, over and over. The heart-wrenching feeling aching through his body once more, and his eyes filled with tears.

"No John, no. It’s not okay. I made you remember and I promised I wouldn't. I said that he was gone, I ensured you. I said that you would be safe-"

“Sherlock, you said yourself, when Mary shot you, that I always choose danger. I'm attracted to it. So you can never say that I am safe. Never. You cannot blame this on yourself! You didn’t know this would happen, did you?” John cried hysterically.

"Sherlock, I will help you. We will all help you." John insisted. He turned to get conformation from Mary, who nodded her head in agreement.

Sherlock stared at John, his mind calculating just how well he could carry that through. Then he looked at Mary. Pregnant Mary, who’s face was a canvas of fear, memory and twisted emotions. He sighed sympathetically.

He couldn't let them stand there and believe they could help without endangering themselves. He couldn't let that happen. It was too cold for anyone to stay any longer on this runway. Mary pulled her snug tighter around her neck, and snuggled into John's free arm.

"God your freezing." John pulled Mary towards him, protectively encompassing her and the bump, a placed a kiss on her forehead. "Lets go." He walked Mary to the spare car, and returned to Sherlock.

"I am happy your back, Sherlock, really I am. Any help, please say. I don’t want you to have to suffer on your own again." John was stern, but honest. It was just what Sherlock needed, that thing he couldn't have.

"I know John, thank you. Don't leave Mary waiting, John. You can't ever do that. Family comes first." It hurt Sherlock to tell John to go, when he was the cure to all his ails.

"Sherlock, you are family." John smiled, pain in his eyes.

"Not the family you need right now." Sherlock looked over to the car, where Mary sat, watching them talk. John turned to admire her too. She smiled through the glass. John started to head back towards the car, but half way he stopped, and turned to face Sherlock again.

"That wasn't an east wind." John laughed, he turned and headed back to the car again.

"No it certainly wasn't. See you soon in a bit, John." Sherlock watched him clamber into the car, and then walked back towards Mycroft, who was talking furiously and powerfully to someone lower down the line.

He climbed into one of the back seats, to which Mycroft swiftly joined him. "I'll get you all the information possible on this. I'll get you back to 221B and I have already made a few calls to get the media to hold back for a while." Mycroft offered in hushed tones. "You are all we have at the moment Sherlock, you have the whole of England looking towards you. We will get anything you need, if you can take this case for me."

"You have to give extra protection to John and Mary, I don't want them involved. They have their own things to worry about now, not this." Sherlock sighed.

"Of course, that is one of the first things I will put in place."

"This case was made for me Mycroft, no one else would be able to take it. Someone wants my attention, and they have it." Sherlock frowned, looking through posts about the broadcast on twitter. "How long can you hold the media off?" Sherlock slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to Mycroft.

"Around two hours at most. That will get you into the 221B, providing we make no prior stops." Mycroft answered, looking out the window at the sky.

"Take me home, Mycroft. I have a case to solve." He smiled.

"To 221B Baker Street." Mycroft told the driver, and they pulled away from the jet and the dark, stormy runway.

"Thank you brother, I believe England will be eternally grateful for your sacrifice." Mycroft sneered.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, and texted the man he trusted most.

 

_**The game is on. - SH** _


End file.
